The Hunger Games from Gale's POV
by LadyLazarus22
Summary: Just like the title says, this is based on Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games, only told from Gale's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

_Katniss!_ That is my first thought when I wake. I was dreaming. Of her. She stood in our spot, the sun rising behind her. Illuminating her. She was radiant, beautiful. I walked to her, but I could never reach her. No matter how much I moved forward, she remained distant.

It's barely dawn. Gray light seeps through the windows and I remember why I couldn't reach her. I need to get out of here. I need to hunt, take my mind off that. Off her. I dress quietly. Before I leave, I quickly check on Vick and Rory, still asleep at different ends of the bed they share. Mother with little Posy curled up tight next to her. Force of habit. They're okay, at least.

I make my way silently through the quiet streets and dusty alleyways, through the meadow and under the fence that surrounds District 12. In the woods beyond, a breeze blows. I stop to take it in, clearing away this morning's dream and yesterday's shock. The air is fresh and light and smells of dawn and leaves and damp earth. So different from the air in 12, always thick and heavy with coal dust. There's no escaping the mines in District 12, I suppose. I hear the sound of an animal scurrying nearby, small – a squirrel, perhaps. Normally, I would pursue it; easy prey. But it's then that I realize I didn't even check for the hum of electricity at the fence. I guess the odds were in my favor today. For once. Lucky me.

I reach our spot. I half expect to find her here, waiting for me as she always is. But it's empty, of course. There is no one waiting. Katniss is gone. A player in the Capitol's twisted Games. It feels like a million years since she was with me. But it was only yesterday morning we were here, joking and feasting. Before the reaping. Before the Capitol took her. Before she'd yelled those fateful words. _I volunteer. _Saving her sister. Condemning herself.

I think back, remembering the feeling of calm dread that swept through me as I registered her cry. The way my body instinctively moved towards her, without me even realizing I was moving, wanting to grab hold of her and...what? So I grab hold of Prim instead. Pacing and waiting in the Justice Building to see her, to say goodbye. Perhaps for good. I think of that last conversation. Where I did not say goodbye, if only because I refused to accept it. Or maybe because I thought I might cry, and Katniss didn't need that. She needed me to be strong. So I was.

Mostly, I think of my final words to her, replaying the scene again and again. The last words I would've said, had I not been cut off by a door. The shock of it slamming, of her face gone from my sight, carried such a finality. The remaining words choked in my throat.

_Remember, I..._

I what? Was I really going to say _I love you_ to Katniss then? How unfair that would have been, to do that to her. No, it's better the words were lost. I had every opportunity, didn't I? To tell her how I feel. But I didn't. Couldn't. What was I waiting for? For her, probably. For her to realize on her own, like I did. For nature to take its course. Taking my time with her for granted, certainly. And now she's gone. Stolen from me by the Capitol, as my father was stolen by their oppressive mines.

_Crunch._ I look down. I hold the pieces of a broken twig in each hand, splintered remains litter the ground. I don't even remember picking anything up. _Get it together, Hawthorne. _

Think. Katniss is strong, by far the smartest, bravest girl I know. Haven't we hunted together in these woods for years? And she was so tiny when we began, but still fiercely determined to learn everything she could. To provide for her family. I doubt even Career tributes have that kind of real experience in the wild, despite all their training. No, Katniss is a survivor, like me. She can take care of herself. She'll come back. Meanwhile, I need to keep my promise to her. Take care of things here. My family. Her family. This is not the time to fall apart.

The sun is almost fully up. I have no appetite for food, so I get moving. As I'm checking the snare line, a moment of panic consumes me. _I should've taught her more about snares. I should've taught her how to use them on bigger game, not just small. That's knowledge she could've used, translated into the arena. And I should've volunteered, to keep her safe. I could've done more. I should've done more..._

I stop at the stream, gulp down handfuls of water until the panic subsides. _Katniss is strong, _I remind myself. _Katniss will make it. She'll come back. _My face is wet, and I'm not sure if it's from the water or my tears. _I should've said something sooner. Why didn't I say something sooner?_

As I make my way back into town, I repeat the words in my head: _She'll come back. She'll come back. _As I make my usual stops I remind myself again: _Katniss is strong, she'll come back. _It's only when I get to the Hob and finally notice the too generous trades coupled with sad shakes of the head do I lose my ability to hold on to the thought. There, everyone looks at me with pity. As if they know what I won't let myself admit: _Katniss isn't coming back. I have lost her for good._

I knew that though, didn't I? Knew it even before the reaping. Didn't I first feel that calm dread when I traded with the baker that morning? As he handed me the still-warm loaf, as I noticed a display of cookies decorated with dandelions made of frosting. I felt it: the fleeting chill of impending doom. His son is a tribute too, I think. What kind of odds are those? Certainly not favorable ones.

It goes on like this, in the days leading up to the Games. Luckily, my resolve is strengthened when I stop by Katniss' to drop off fresh game and plants her mother didn't ask for, but I know she needs. When I see Prim's giant eyes so full of fear, despite her attempts to be strong for her mother. For me, even. She reminds me so much of my Catnip then, back when we first met, I'm able to shake the darker thoughts away. It's why, on Opening Night, I've chosen to watch the Games with them. It's better here, comforting them, surrounded by Katniss' essence and all that she loves. Better than being in my own home, alone despite my mother's attempts to comfort me.

I sit off to the side, tense and stiff. I try to relax, but it's strange to be here without Katniss. Stranger still knowing Katniss will be on the other side of the screen. Close enough to touch, but so far. A tribute. It dawns on me I have never in my life watched an Opening Night ceremony for the Hunger Games. By the time District 2's splendid horse-drawn carriage rolls by, I wish I had continued that tradition.

The display is disgusting. All these children, some no bigger than Prim, not even able to be themselves in the end. Turned into grotesque caricatures instead, with their hideous make-up and costumes. Paraded through the streets amidst fanfare and those stupid Capitol accents, like this is all one big party. A festival of death, hooray. And for what? So us District slaves will always know our place? The small knot I've felt in my chest since the reaping hardens. I don't want to see Katniss this way.

But suddenly, there she is. And I can no longer breathe.

"Oh, Katniss," whispers Prim, awed. "She's so beautiful."

Prim is right. Katniss floats by on the screen, stunning in her costume meant to mimic fire, the product of the coal we produce here in 12. She's not so much consumed by the fire, but rather, she's emerging from it. No, more. She _is_ the fire. And every bit as mesmerizing. Breathtaking. Literally. I've never seen her like this, but somehow it's familiar...

The chair I sit in moans. I feel myself shaking, my hands gripping the chair's arm, my skin stretched tight. I can feel my veins protruding, every muscle contracting, a moist heat clouding my eyes. Katniss' mother places her hand on my arm, but I can't look away. I can't see if she means to reassure me or needs reassurance herself, since my chest is caving in and the world around me is turning black. There is only that radiant flame flickering across the screen, kindling inside me a heat I have never felt before.

Rage. That's what this is. Not even when my father died did I feel _this_. Miners die in accidents; it happens. But _this_? This...sadistic pageantry? How dare they. How dare they dress Katniss up, decorating her like a roast pig. How dare they parade her through the streets, adoring her like one would a particularly choice cut of meat.

I hate every person in that crowd, cheering on this garish death march. Their greed. Their bloodlust. Their barbaric mindlessness. I hate the Capitol, and all it stands for. Its inhabitants. Its "Hunger Games," when no one in the Capitol even knows what hunger is. And if I'm really honest, I'll admit I hate him too. The fire boy whose hand she's holding, the other tribute from our district. The baker's son. A town kid. Bet he thought he'd never end up in the arena. Yes, I hate him too. I hate all of them.

If I could, I would end them all. I want them all to burn.

I spend the next few days hunting. Incessantly. Hunting fiercely, with a passion. Every arrow I release is an arrow shot into the heart of the Capitol. Each arrow eases some of my rage. I release a lot of arrows. I am so loaded down with game in those first couple days after the opening ceremonies, I need to make two trips into town. By the third day, I feel better. The feeling is short lived.

"They'll be announcing the scores soon, Gale" Prim tells me when I make my usual stop at her home. "For the tributes. Are you going to watch with us?"

The idea of re-living the Capitol's morbid sport threatens the relative calm I've achieved from days spent in the woods. The thought of them scoring Katniss, sizing her up so people can place bets like they were bidding on a particularly plump deer threatens to send me into a tailspin. I don't think I can do it. It takes one look at Prim's face, and her mother's behind her, both looks pleading, not wanting to suffer the indignity of this alone, for me to change my mind.

"Of course," I manage.

I resume my spot off to the side, again stiff and tense. As the scores are announced, I brace myself for another upwelling of rage like that first night. I don't want to think about Katniss being judged, but I can't help it. I know the score she gets tonight could mean the difference between her life and death in the arena. Prim is saying something about Katniss' ability with a bow and arrow, which I know to be excellent, but I tune her out. On screen is the male tribute from 12, the baker's son. Peeta Mellark, the screen says. He scores an eight. It's a decent enough score, but male tributes almost always score higher than the females, Careers highest of all. If he scored an eight, what will Katniss get? And what will that mean for her?

He's been replaced by Katniss, so I guess I'll know soon enough. Although I remain seated, I imagine myself up near the television, tracing the contours of her face on the screen. At least she looks normal here. Katniss Everdeen. The knot in my chest hardens again. What will the number be?

Eleven flashes beneath her name. I hear the sharp intake of breath from Prim, her mother, even myself. Eleven. Has anyone ever scored so high? That's damn near perfect. Not quite perfect, but pretty damn near it.

"_That's my girl," _I whisper inaudibly, smiling to myself. For the first time in a week, the knot eases. For the first time in a week, I feel...hopeful. The odds are turning in our favor. _Katniss is strong. Katniss will make it. She'll win the Capitol's sick, twisted Games. She'll come back. _And this time, I actually believe it. Katniss will come back, I'm sure of it. Katniss will come home. To me.


	2. Chapter 2

It's strange how much the tiny bit of hope from yesterday's scoring has lifted my spirits. But it has. By the time tonight's broadcast begins to air, I'm almost excited. Mostly because the agenda for tonight is interviews. I'll get to hear her voice again, if only for three minutes.

The tributes file onto the stage, still plucked and smoothed and decorated like stuffed geese lining the Harvest Festival banquet table. And then, there she is. Katniss. I tense when I see her, waiting for the familiar rage from opening night. It doesn't come. In its place is only a poignant resignation.

Much like the radiant flame she was during opening ceremonies, Katniss seems to be on fire again, a luminous jewel. Like then, she's beautiful in a way I've never seen before. It kills me to know I have the Capitol to thank for giving me this. For highlighting her beauty in this way.

I focus on the other tributes, sizing up Katniss' competition. The girl from District 1 gets my attention easily. Admittedly, the sheer gold gown displaying her body for all of Panem might have something to do with it. I know it's normal for my pulse to quicken like it does—she certainly has the sexy thing down. But the sight stirs up thoughts of the desperate girls who huddle outside Cray's each night, willing to be used and discarded if it might help them feed their families. My stomach churns, and I'm ashamed—both of my own thoughts, however fleeting, and for the girl from District 1.

I lose focus, unable to pay attention to anyone. Except Katniss. My eyes can't help but lock on her every time the cameras shoot her way, silently willing them to linger on her just a little bit longer. Finally, after a wisp of a girl smaller than Prim, and a giant of a boy even taller than me, it's Katniss' turn. At first, I was worried for her. Katniss isn't exactly a people person, so I can't imagine her handling this kind of interview well. But there she is, joking with Caesar Flickerman like she does this all the time.

When he asks what's impressed her most since she arrived in the Capitol, she responds, "the lamb stew," getting a laugh out of me, Caesar and the crowd alike. She's smiling and actually _giggling_—something I have never seen her do—and...did she just _twirl_? Any other girl and I'd probably roll my eyes. But on Katniss, I find this unexpected gushing to be almost...endearing. Sad, but endearing.

Still, it's strange to see her this way. It's like she's actually enjoying herself, and I know that can't be right—tomorrow that same adoring crowd will be cheering on her slaughter. Maybe it's some kind of strategy. Or nerves. Yes, it must be one of those. I can't even let myself think of Katniss getting sucked into _enjoying_ her role in the Capitol's gruesome spectacle.

Then Caesar asks her about volunteering for Prim. "What did she say to you? After the reaping?"

Prim's head sinks to her hands, unable to watch. Her mother rubs her back, smooths her hair to say _it's alright. _On screen, Katniss swallows hard before answering, "She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?" Caesar asks.

Katniss' body goes rigid, her face the same blank mask of focused concentration she gets before a kill. "I swore I would." No, she is not enjoying her role in the Capitol's spectacle. Not in the least. For the second time tonight, I'm ashamed of my thoughts.

I'm mulling this over when the boy, Peeta, takes his place beside Caesar. Like the tributes before Katniss, I have a hard time focusing on him. I want the cameras to pan back to her. But he's charming and engaging, getting the crowd laughing and calling out to him, so the cameras stay put. He's going on about some girl from home he's had a crush on forever. A girl who doesn't know he's alive, or at least didn't until the reaping.

"She have another fellow?" Caesar's asking him now.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," Peeta says. Some town girl, no doubt. Probably someone like Katniss' friend Madge. The mayor's daughter. I try not to scoff, but I do.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" Caesar says encouragingly. _Yeah, except he won't win, _I think. _He can't. Katniss is going to win this thing. She has to._

"I don't think it's going to work out," says Peeta. "Winning...won't help in my case." I can relate some, so I almost feel sorry for the guy. But there's a nagging feeling inside me that prevents any real sympathy. Surely I'm not still jealous that Katniss was holding his hand that first night, am I? As I think this over, Peeta stammers out a response to Caesar's _why not? _

"Because...because...she came here with me."

Wait...what? Does he mean..._Katniss_? As if to answer me, the cameras cut to an extreme close-up of Katniss, gray eyes wide with shock and confusion, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

A memory surfaces. I'm at the baker's with a couple fat squirrels to trade when he, Peeta, opens the door. For a brief moment, he gives me a look. A seething look that speaks of anger and resentment and misery and...a hint of jealousy, too. It was just a moment. A flicker of bitter recognition, then gone. So fleeting, most people wouldn't have even registered it. But most people don't have a hunter's instincts. I do, so I noticed.

The way he then looked from side to side, scanning the area behind me for something—at the time, I thought he was nervous about Peacekeepers. Angry with his father for putting their family at risk, perhaps. Angry with me for involving his father in illegal trade, probably. Maybe even a little jealous of the nonchalant way I ignore the rules. Town kids are like that: in awe of what they consider bravery, not fully getting that I don't hunt and trade at the Hob for sport, I do it so me and my family can survive. I thought some mixture of this is what I read on his face that day. Now, I know what was really going through his head: Katniss.

And I understand. I understand the bit of rage that included him that first night, just as I understand that nagging feeling I have tonight. Yes, I am jealous. And angry. With the Capitol and their sick Games taking Katniss from me, true. But I'm also intensely resentful of this town kid who's not even part of Katniss' life. After all me and Katniss have been through together, he is the one who gets to share this intimate experience with her. To fight with her. Survive with her. Maybe even die with her. He is the one there with her, next to her, holding her hand. Not me. It should be me.

Worse, hegets totell Katniss how he feels about her—on live television, no less. _He _doesn't have to worry about what she'll think. Doesn't have to worry how his words will affect her ability, her safety—I mean, he's just made her a bigger target! With her high score, and now _this, _everyone will be looking to take her out first thing. Jerk. But what does he care? After all, _he _doesn't have to suck it up and be strong for her because that's what she wants and needs. _He_ gets to be the tragic romantic hero.

I can feel all of Panem heaving a lovesick sigh. Even Prim, who stares at the television almost wistfully. Only her mother looks at me with sad, knowing eyes.

I think of all the time I've spent with Katniss. Especially the last six months. All those moments, missed opportunities. Gone. Like the time I almost kissed her but didn't...

It was about four months ago now. Tender shoots of crocus sprouted through the earth, announcing spring's arrival despite the patches of frost and ice that remained. The weather was starting to warm, and Katniss and I were hoping this would mean more game for us. The path we walked had a slight decline, and she slipped. Instinctively, I reached out to catch her, causing us both to lose our footing. I managed to keep us from falling by steadying her against a tree, my body pressed against hers for support.

She was laughing. I looked down at her flushed face, just inches from my own. Her gray eyes, so like mine. Smiling, happy. Her dark hair tousled, falling across her face. I pushed a lock of it out of her eyes, tucking it gently behind her ear. I shuddered at the unexpected pleasure of her skin against mine. What would happen if I kissed her right now? Her lips, would they be soft? Warm? Yielding? I leaned in, eyes half closed. But she turned.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Dandelion..."

She started towards a patch of dandelion leaves, the flowers not yet in bloom. Oblivious of my intent. I hesitated. I could have held her there, said something. Focused her attention back to me. I could have kissed her anyway. But I eased back unconsciously, my body so used to being in sync with hers. I let the moment pass. What would have happened if I had kissed her then? Does it even matter? It's not like a kiss would've saved her from the Games.

I think of the time Katniss and Peeta have spent together since the reaping. The time they'll spend together in the upcoming days. I'm sure Katniss didn't know he was alive before, but still. He's a boy, she's a girl. This is an extreme situation...and I don't think Katniss has ever so much as kissed anyone. Would she want to die without having experienced even one kiss? That's what I should've done in the Justice Building. Kissed her. Now I'll probably never get the chance. And she'll never know what she really means to me.

My thoughts darken. I envision Katniss taking him out. Peeta. The look of somber recognition in his big blue eyes just as she lets the death arrow fly, piercing his heart. It's cruel, I know. I shouldn't root for his death. Town kid or not, he's still as much a District slave as I am, or he wouldn't be there on the Capitol stage. But it's the one small comfort I have, knowing only one of them can escape the arena alive. Knowing that Katniss is more likely to be that one.

_You're absolutely right, Peeta Mellark, _I think._ It's not going to work out. Because Katniss is the one coming home. And she's coming home to me._

Suddenly, I'm exhausted and depressed and anxious for the Games to start already. The sooner they begin, the sooner they'll end, and the sooner I'll get Katniss back. _Or not_, the cold dread growing in the pit of my stomach reminds me. Either way, I'm ready to find out. Which is why, when I'm home in bed and drifting off, I find myself imagining Claudius Templesmith's iconic booming voice: _Ladies and gentlemen, let the Hunger Games begin! _Only one more day.

Just as sleep takes me, a tiny silver parachute drops from the sky, exploding as Katniss and Peeta kiss. Delicate yellow petals float across an abandoned rock ledge. Once our meeting spot. A bird sings a mournful song. Rain drips down from somewhere, the sound like a clock. _Tick. Tock, _it drips. _Tick. Tock._


	3. Chapter 3

_Ladies and gentlemen, let the 74th Hunger Games begin! _

Claudius Templesmith's familiar voice booms from the television. I feel as though I've heard the words a hundred times already. Which, technically, I guess I have, as I've replayed them in my head again and again since dawn, trying to unravel last night's dream.

The tiny silver parachutes I know from the Games. But they don't explode; they're actually a sign of relief. Gifts from sponsors, usually containing food or something urgently needed at the time. I've seen kids sob tears of joy at the sight of those little parachutes falling from the sky. For it to explode...that I don't get. The yellow petals are a mystery as well, since no yellow flower I can think of grows anywhere near the rock ledge where Katniss and I meet.

The bird...Well, there are lots of those about. Many sing. When I was younger, I remember seeing Katniss' father near the meadow once, singing. The birds all stopped their chirping, listening to his strong, clear voice. When he left, they began to sing his song. This is the only connection I can think of with birds, so maybe it has something to do with Katniss?

Of course, the entire dream had something to do with Katniss, I'm sure. The eerie sound of rain dripping like a clock. Probably the sound of her impending doom. My doom. The two are so connected. And the other part in the beginning, with Katniss and the boy...I can't even think about that. Luckily, since the Games have started now, I don't have to.

The camera is rising out of darkness as it always does, just like the tributes experience it. It's meant to make you feel like you're really there in the arena. But you're not there. Your loved ones are. It's perfect really: it heightens the drama for those in the Capitol who soak up the bloody Games for sport. More importantly, it heightens the terror for us in the Districts, knowing that our loved ones are actually living what we see. It keeps us afraid. Which keeps us obedient. The Capitol has psychological warfare down to a science.

Take today, for example. Day one of the Games is always a holiday in Panem, one of just a very few. Done to maximize viewing, no doubt. Make sure us District slaves have no excuse not to witness the horror of our children murdered before our eyes. Make sure we all know exactly how much power the Capitol has over us by forcing us to _celebrate_ the brutal demise of our own.

In honor of this "special" occasion, both our families—mine and Katniss'—are watching the Games together, here in my home. My mother suggested it. She probably thought Katniss' mother and sister needed better company than just me. She was right.

So here we sit, the small room crowded with bodies. Vick and Rory sprawled out on the floor, a tangle of growing limbs. Prim in the rocker my father carved, feet tucked beneath her. Katniss' mother in an armchair to the right, her back straight, almost rigid. My mother seated next to me on the threadbare sofa, trying hard to remain optimistic. I think she's doing it for Katniss' mother and sister, or maybe for little four year-old Posy perched on my lap, her tiny arms wrapped around my neck. I hope it's not for me.

"Oooh, pwetty!" Posy exclaims, large gray eyes wide with excitement, transfixed on the screen before us.

I want to cover her eyes. I want to bolt from the room, carry her to the woods where it's fresh and alive, take her away from this. The thought of her viewing this tragic farce as something exciting or entertaining makes me feel ill. But it's required viewing for all of Panem. And she'll grow out of that thinking soon enough. I'll make sure of it. Besides, I have to admit she's right. It is pretty. The Hunger Games' arenas usually are.

Before us lies a gleaming amber plain, encircled by the 24 tributes on metal platforms with glass tubes disappearing down into the earth. In the center, a dazzling gold structure shines, at least 20 feet high and blinding in the bright sun.

An aerial shot shows the structure in more detail—a large cornucopia, teeming with survival packs, food and weapons. On top of a pile sits one perfect silver bow and sheath of arrows. My heart jumps as I think of Katniss. The view overhead expands upward and out, traveling the length of the picturesque arena: a steep cliff with high fields below it on one side, a sparkling blue lake and wooded area on the other. Pines, maybe. This is promising.

With the exception of the District 7 tributes, I'd bet Katniss has the most experience in a wooded area like that. And who knows what the District 7 tributes can handle. Are they able to survive like Katniss? To hunt? To fend for themselves? I'd bet most of these kids have little to no experience with weapons, except maybe the Careers.

But Katniss does. With that bow and arrows, she'll do well. She'll be able to hunt, providing meat that'll keep her much stronger than whatever greens and berries there might be. Most importantly, she'll be able to use the bow for defense. If she can just get to it. It's right in the center, where the bloodbath happens. The gory battle between tributes for weapons and supplies that kicks off the Games. Usually, more die here on the first day than at any other point in the Games. Of course that's where it would be.

"Katniss!" Posy and Prim cry out in unison.

The camera has panned around the circle of tributes, lingering for just a second on each one, ending with Katniss. She looks like herself here, her face free of the Capitol's touch.

A gong sounds. Tributes fly off their platforms. Most head straight to the center, while some others immediately flee for the woods or the fields below the cliff. It's clear there are those who know what they're doing. They'll likely survive the day at least. But others...some of the others, you just know their families will be in mourning sooner rather than later. It's sad.

Katniss hesitates on her platform a second too long, clearly weighing the benefits hidden in the cornucopia with the one major con: probable death. Katniss is fast; if she had taken off immediately, she'd have made it for sure. Getting out would've been trickier, but she'd have the bow and arrows then. That second of hesitation will cost her. _Please don't go into the cornucopia, _I think. _It's too late!_

She starts straight ahead, towards the middle of the field. The cornucopia. I groan. Five heads turn to me, faces tense. I know they're all looking to me as a guide. My reaction will tell them how well things are going, since years of hunting have taught me to see and understand what they can't. Things in the arena can move so fast. A few seconds into it, and I'm already groaning. Not good.

"What? What is it?" Rory asks.

"Nothing," I say. "It's just...the cornucopia..."

"Oh. Yeah. The bloodbath..."

Hearing the words _blood bath _out loud like that quiets everyone, except Posy, who of course doesn't understand what those words together mean.

"Look, thewe's Katniss again!" she yells excitedly.

Katniss has picked up an orange pack from somewhere. No bow and arrows, though. She's in a full-speed run for the woods. Something is chasing her, but I can't see what. A knife soars across the screen, headed straight for Katniss. She hunches a little, lifting her pack to shield her head. She knows the knife is coming and it probably won't miss. It doesn't. But instead of her skull, the knife lodges deep into the orange pack, thanks to her great instincts. _Thatta girl. Now, just keep it up..._

Whoever threw that knife is an excellent shot. As good as Katniss with a bow and arrow. That is her competition. Damn. But Katniss is grinning as she runs. Seeing that smile, I know what she's thinking. _Thanks for the knife. _I laugh, and Posy laughs with me. Five heads turn again towards us, wanting to be let in on the joke.

"It's Katniss," I say. "Look. She's smiling."

"But she almost just got _killed_!" Prim protests. "What's to smile about that?"

"But she didn't get killed—that's something to smile about," my mother says, still trying for upbeat.

"It's the knife," I explain. "It's something she really needed and I'm sure she's thinking, _thanks, _to whoever threw it. You know, because they missed. And now Katniss has it." Murmurs of understanding. _Ah, I see. Yes. Makes sense..._

"Maybe she's smiling because she likes her pack," Posy chimes in. "But I don't." She scrunches up her face. "It's owange. Uck. It'd be better if it was pink." She nods her head firmly, agreeing with herself.

Everyone can't help but laugh; the very young are great at lightening a mood. It still leaves a sick feeling inside me though, having my four year old sister forced to watch this gore. Hearing her remark on the color of a pack because she's too young to understand the dire seriousness of the situation. It's hard to remember I was once as young as Posy, probably excited by all the fighting like little boys are. Like Vick and Rory used to be. Not understanding what it meant. Not fully appreciating that one day it could be me. Or worse, someone I love.

On screen, an overhead shot displays the carnage taking place in the cornucopia. The bloodbath. A dozen kids whack away at each other on the golden structure. A half dozen more bodies lay crumpled in the surrounding plain. Those kids you just knew wouldn't make it. The cameras skillfully avoid showing any close-ups of the dead. I guess the lifeless faces of dead children would make it just a little _too_ real for the citizens of the Capitol.

Instead, the cameras zoom in close on the fighting. On the kids reduced to animals, their humanity stripped in a savage fight for survival. Ripping each other apart like a pack of wild rabid dogs. Blood splatters. Grunts. Screams. Cries. It's all so dramatic. How the Capitol must love day one.

Every now and then, the camera cuts away to the other tributes, the ones making their way in the woods and fields. Kids looking for water. For food. A place to make camp. Kids just trying to get as far from the grisly slaughter as possible. Including Katniss, who hums to herself absentmindedly as she walks alone through the woods, safe. Okay. For now.

Knowing the next few hours will continue like this, just a few shots of Katniss here and there but the real focus on the bloodbath, our attention turns to food. Because this year the Games are so personal, my mother decided to lay out a real feast. It's much too extravagant and will take some work to make up for, but I don't say anything.

There's a turkey I shot on Sunday, now trimmed and stuffed, glistening from the hours my mother spent roasting it. An assortment of greens and vegetables line the table. Dark, dense bread made from my tessarae grain. Prim brought along some of her goat's milk and two soft cheeses, one wrapped in basil leaves like the morning of the reaping, another coated with needles of rosemary. There are even strawberries, picked just today. Because they reminded me of Katniss, and because I had no desire to deal with anyone from town, I decided to keep them for us.

What the children are most excited about, though, are the bakery products. A loaf of fresh bread. A dozen cookies. And one delicious looking pound cake that will go perfect with the berries. Gifts from the baker. Peeta Mellark's father. It was wholly unexpected, this gift of baked goods.

Being a day off, I'd spent the early morning hours hunting. But on my return, as I emerged in the meadow, I decided not to visit my usual spots in town for trade, even though today was the perfect day for it. I was angry about Peeta's comments from last night, frustrated with the dream still plaguing me this morning. Katniss and Peeta kissing. Somehow, my anger with the boy turned into anger with various people from town, like the Mayor. So I went straight to the Hob instead.

I was at Greasy Sae's stall when he tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, found myself looking down into the red face of the baker. Before I could wonder what brought him to the Hob, he thrust a brown paper-wrapped package at me. For a moment, my body tensed defensively. Silly, of course. I took the package. My eyebrows shot up, questioning.

"For her family," he said. "Her mother...and the girl."

"Of course." I nodded, knowing exactly who he meant. The aroma of fresh bread floated up, and something sweeter. "I haven't any squirrel, wasn't planning on much trading today. But I have a couple rabbits here, and some—" I started to hand him rabbits I had only moments ago promised to Greasy Sae. I didn't want to owe this man. I couldn't owe him anything. It'd make hating his son harder to do.

He cut me off with a shake of his head. "No, no. Not necessary..." He turned and hurried out the Hob before I could say more.

I had no idea of the abundance contained within until I got to Katniss' and her mother opened the unexpected gift. When we saw all that lay inside, there was silence. Hunger being so common in the Seam, a gift like that would be unheard of. Not out of selfishness. It's just, no one ever has that kind of food to simply give away. Had I known the extent of Mr. Mellark's generosity, I would've forced him to accept something in return. I really don't want to owe him.

"Gale..." whispered Prim. "You shouldn't have."

"I didn't. It was the baker. He wouldn't even take anything for it. Just found me in the Hob and gave it to me. Said it was for you. Because of Katniss, probably. We all have something in common now, I guess."

"Well then, it looks like we'll have an excellent feast today," Katniss' mother said as she carefully replaced the wrapping. "Gale, would you mind?" She handed me the package of bread and sweets. As I took it from her, she placed one thin hand on my cheek, giving me an inscrutable look. There was sadness in her clear blue eyes, but something else I couldn't place. Pity, maybe?

Later, as we walked to my house, she turned to me. "I used to know him, the baker. And his family. The Mellarks. When I was a girl."

_That's right, _I thought. She was such a part of Katniss, and Katniss such a part of my life here in the Seam, I often forgot her mother was from town. I simply nodded.

"He wanted to marry me," she said flatly. This revelation brings both Prim and I short.

"Why didn't you? Marry him," I said after a long moment. I didn't say the rest of what I was thinking, about how her life would have been much more comfortable if she had married someone like her. Someone from town. Someone not at risk of being blown to bits in a mining accident.

"Because I was in love with a boy from the Seam," was all she said, seeming to know my unspoken thoughts. She gave me that look again, the inscrutable one tinged with sorrow and pity. Somehow, I knew it had something to do with me and my feelings for Katniss. With the boy, Peeta, and his declaration of love for Katniss.

I think of this exchange with Katniss' mother as we cut into the cake. Trying to puzzle it out, I have a strange thought: maybe, it's a cycle. Because a town girl got pulled into the Seam due to love, a balance has to be righted. A girl from the Seam has to be pulled into town. For love. Katniss. Peeta. _Why am I thinking this? It's likely neither will survive the Games._ I turn to the television to shake the thoughts away.

As if the Gamemakers in the Capitol can read my mind, Peeta Mellark's face flashes on the screen. He's in the cornucopia, the heart of the bloodbath. His face is bruised and his arm bloodied as he struggles with someone, wielding a knife far better than I'd expect.

_Good, let him be killed now. _That's what I want to think. I want to hate him. But in that moment, I can't. So I turn back to the food. A while later, when we've all gorged ourselves, the cannons ring out from the television, silencing us. One. Two. Three...eleven dead. Eleven grieving families. Thirteen players left. Thankfully, I know Katniss is among the thirteen.

After Katniss' mother and sister have gone and Posy lays asleep in my arms, I watch Katniss set a couple twitch-up snares that I taught her, which makes me smile. I watch her start to make camp hidden in a tree, a smart move. Most of the remaining tributes have begun to make camp as well, although some still wander around in the growing darkness. My mother comes to take Posy to bed, removing the cookie Posy's little fingers cling to. She hands it to me thoughtlessly, admonishing me to get some sleep.

"It's been a long day," she says. "Katniss will be fine. Even tributes have to sleep."

"I know. In a while," I say, distracted, my head craning to see around her. While she was lifting Posy from my arms, the cameras cut to another scene in the arena. The Careers. Setting up camp near the lake.

I recognize the sexy girl from District 1 and a hulking boy from District 2, I think. They've got a host of supplies at their disposal. Torches. Food. Weapons galore. Ready to take anyone out. And they've formed a pack: The two boys and two girls from Districts 1 and 2. A girl from District 4, I assume—it's the only Career district left. Another boy, who may be the boy from 4, but he looks so small. And the final member, who's not a Career tribute at all. No, it's Peeta Mellark. From our very own District 12.

And several of them are talking. About killing Katniss.

The hot rage from opening night flows through me like lava, scorching my veins. I have no problems hating Peeta Mellark now. I want him to die. If I could transport myself through the television, I would kill him. Choke the life out of him with my bare hands. I can only hope one of the Careers turns on him and does what circumstance prevents me from doing.

A long moment later I find Posy's cookie from the Baker Mellark crumbled in my shaking hand.


End file.
